


the party isn't over tonight

by soulgraves



Series: the party isn't over tonight [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Band Fic, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5385434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulgraves/pseuds/soulgraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The band had been an accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the party isn't over tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesblams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesblams/gifts).



> [Post S5, disregards S6.]
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAMMIE! Here, have some boys being angsty and in a band and stuff.

Blaine hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder, and it’s only down to practice that Sam keeps playing, doesn’t even blink when the microphone’s pressed against his cheek and Blaine’s singing into his ear as the crowd goes wild. Blaine’s chest is flush against his back as he balances of his toes, and when he finally moves away he shoots Sam a grin, playful and sexy and everything Blaine _is_ when he’s onstage, performing to a room full of strangers that love him. Sam’s hands are aching, he’s so far beyond the point of tired, he can’t remember the last time he had a proper shower, and there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be than up here on this stage with Blaine next to him, in front of him, behind him, playing push and pull with the crowd until they’re putty in his hands.

Jack, their bassist, is rolling his eyes good-naturedly at Blaine’s antics, and it’s easy to forget that not everyone’s used to this, didn’t grow up in high school glee clubs and New York dramatics, but the further they leave them behind, the more sure Sam is that’s a good thing. Besides, Jack was an emo scene kid, complete with eyeliner and dyed bangs, and those pictures are going to be forever immortalized on the internet if Sam has anything to do with it, even if it does start a war involving their parents photo albums and every embarrassing show choir smile or home-made Good Charlotte t-shirt of their pasts. Basically, Jack doesn’t have a leg to stand on and he knows it.

Blaine’s talking to the crowd, introducing the next song and Amal, who’s on the road with them for the first time after Charlie, their last drummer, came cautiously into their room on a rare hotel night and said, “My girlfriend, we just found out--” and they toasted congratulations and Sam carefully didn’t look at Blaine. Amal raises his sticks in greeting, winks at the crowd, and his smile’s honest when the room cheers. Sam likes Amal; he’s a cool dude - reminds Sam of Ryder a bit - so he hopes he sticks around after the tour’s over, even if they haven’t said anything formally. That’s Blaine’s area, and - though he always insists otherwise - this is Blaine’s band, and even if it wasn’t, it’s not like Sam’s ever been able to say no to him.

“Anyway,” Blaine says, voice raw, still smiling, “sing along if you know the words to this one.”

Everyone does.

It’s still the coolest thing in the world.

 

****

~

 

Jack drags Amal and some of the guys from this month’s support band out as soon as they’re packed up, and Sam’s not even sure what State they’re in - maybe Kansas? - but their goal only stretches as far as cold beer so they’ll be fine. Jack raises an eyebrow in invitation but doesn’t actively say it, giving Sam the out; sometimes Sam goes, but more nights than not he stays back, and no one asks why but that’s only because they all know the answer.

“We’ll bring back pancakes or something,” Jack says, clapping him on the shoulder. “This is the kind of town that’s bound to have a throwback all-night diner or whatever.”

Sam grins, tells him he’s a prince among men, and then wanders through the busses, trying to pick out the right one in the dark.

Blaine looks up when he opens the door, smile softer when he’s not onstage, and Sam grins back and grabs two bottles of water from the mini fridge.

“Hey,” he says, dropping down on the couch and spreading out until he’s taking up all the space Blaine’s not. “Good show.”

“ _Great_ show,” Blaine says, and, _yeah_ , but Sam wasn’t going to say it first. 

There are shadows under Blaine’s eyes and the beginnings of a beard he’d never have let get this far in the past, and once upon a time those would have been warning signs but now they’re matched with relaxed shoulders and clear eyes, so Sam just reaches out and tugs him closer. Blaine falls into the hug easily, humming a little into Sam’s collarbone and reaching for the remote with the arm that’s not pinned between them. 

“Amal’s laptop’s still hooked up and he has all of _Battlestar Galactica_ ,” Blaine says. “I like Amal.”

“Me too,” Sam says, and knows they’re not just talking about the guy’s taste in sci-fi shows.

“I’m glad you’re here, Sam,” Blaine says, the same thing he says after every show, and Sam smiles, moves until it won’t be uncomfortable when they inevitably fall asleep, and kisses the top of Blaine’s head.

“I’m glad I’m here, too,” he says, his regular echo, and still means it as much as he did the first time.

 

****

~

 

Blaine gets the call in St. Louis, and Sam doesn’t need to see his phone to know who it is, can tell from the way Blaine freezes, expression blank for a moment before resignation floods over him and he walks away to answer. Jack pulls a face, kicks the soccer ball at the other end of the parking lot and waves at everyone to go on ahead.

“Everything okay?” Amal asks, casually, like he’s not sure he should.

Jack looks at Sam and then shrugs when Sam doesn’t answer. “This happens sometimes,” he says carefully. “There’s just some stuff Blaine doesn’t talk about, and Sammy here doesn’t talk about, and I’m pretty sure a lot of it has to do with whoever calls once or twice a tour and leaves Blaine looking like he’s just found out he’s been killing kittens in his sleep or something.”

“Pretty much,” Sam says, because _it is_ , and he knows one day they should tell their band the whole story rather than just the bits and pieces they let slip when they’re drunk, but the honest truth is it’s not that interesting and, the odd phone call aside, it’s not all that important, not anymore. “It won’t affect his performance,” he promises, defending Blaine here where he can’t through a phone line.

“I know,” Amal says, confidently. “I wasn’t worried about that.”

Jack slaps Amal on the shoulder in an approving way, and Sam likes them both even more.

 

****

~

 

Blaine doesn’t come back until half an hour before they’re due onstage, and Sam hugs him immediately, holding on tight until Blaine lets go and wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders, his fingers twisting in the back of Sam’s t-shirt as he clings for dear life. They stay that way until Blaine’s breathing’s evened out against Sam’s neck and Sam can feel the tension start to seep away.

“Showtime,” Blaine says, and when he pulls away his eyes are dry and bright and his smile’s real again. 

“I was thinking,” Amal says, a little nervously, “the intro to _Unsure_ , could I improvise a bit? Or would that throw everyone off?”

“Do it,” Blaine says, and Sam keeps one hand on the small of his back, stealing some of his confidence for himself. “If it throws us off, it throws us off. It’s been ages since we’ve winged it, it’ll be fun. We _don’t_ have to be perfect.”

_We don’t have to be perfect._

There’s nothing Sam doesn’t know about Blaine, knows when he’s rebelling against someone else’s words, and takes a deep breath to stop himself making a call of his own.

 

****

~

 

They don’t talk about it for three more stops, which is better than the time Blaine refused to bring it up at all and still too long. In the end, Blaine shakes him awake to the sound of a six a.m. gas stop and tells the driver they’re going to grab breakfast, not saying anything else until they’re seated in a booth at a roadside IHOP, piles of pancakes and too much coffee in front of them. Sam considers the four hours prime sleeping time they’ve still got on the bus and downs two mugs anyway.

“So,” he says, when he’s sure Blaine’s ready, “what did Rachel want?”

Blaine shrugs, lips a tight line, and then seems to give up, his back curving over the table as he reaches for the syrup. “To ‘check in’,” he says. “See how my little band’s doing, and if I’m going to be able to make it to the opening of her latest show, and did I hear about Quinn’s new job? Oh, and Kurt’s new place is just _perfect._ ”

Sam freezes. “Kurt moved out?”

“Apparently,” Blaine says, not looking up from his plate, “he and What’s-His-Face have brought a house together.”

 _Shit_ , Sam thinks, and then figures he might as well vocalize it. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says. “He’s also got another promotion at Vogue dot com, has been in talks to design his own line of men’s accessories, and is off to Paris for Fashion Week. With What’s-His-Face, obviously, or he wouldn’t get the _full romantic experience_ , and everyone really wanted to make that happen for them.”

Sam gives himself a few seconds to imagine pushing Rachel off the Eiffel Tower, along with Kurt and What’s-His-Face for good measure. It’s irrational, obviously - none of this is Kurt’s fault; he deserves to be happy, and What’s-His-Face (real name George, but What’s-His-Face is Blaine and Sam’s one concession to being petty) is good to him and good _for_ him when Blaine was only ever half that. Rachel’s still their friend too, she _is_ , but first and foremost she’s Kurt’s, and her passive aggressive behavior never quite moved past the Break Up.

“Want to tell Tina so she can troll the Broadway forums again?” Sam says. “You know how much she enjoys that.”

Blaine laughs, and Sam lets himself feel smug about it. “No, but we should give her call soon or she’ll start to worry.”

“As a professional Blaine groupie herself, she’s rightfully concerned about your safety,” Sam says, and Blaine punches him in the arm. Sam laughs and slides further into the booth. “On that topic, I’m pretty sure she’s responsible for at least ninety-percent of the fanfic about us online, just so you know. The details are way too close for comfort.”

Blaine groans. “I thought we’d agreed to never mention that again,” he says, which is only half true. They’d agreed to never mention it again when _sober_. Sam still has plenty of entertaining half-memories of the time Jerry, a Texan roadie, had left them his stash as a goodbye gift when he’d jumped tours; they’d saved it until Jack disappeared for an all-night poker game on one of the other busses and Charlie flew ahead so he could spend some time with his girlfriend, and even then they’d both felt a little guilty as they huddled into Blaine’s bunk and pulled the curtains shut. It wasn’t the first time either of them had smoked but something about their exhaustion and the confined space had left them giddy with it, which somehow led to them reading passages of stories to each other, acting out their own lines and getting so tangled up they’d both fallen out of the bunk the next morning when Sam had tried to get up to use the bathroom. 

Needless to say, people on the internet write some interesting things (and he’s not really joking about Tina; he’s seen her browser history). 

“You okay, though?” Sam says, because he has to, because Blaine’s the worst at actually talking out his problems and if no one asks they just keep building and building and-- Well, they’ve all seen where that leads. Sam’s never minded asking, not since the days of choir rooms and superheroes and a boy that forgot that, in the end, he was still a kid.

“Yes,” Blaine says, smiling that soft, fond smile that’s just for Sam and always has been. “Yes Sammy, I’m okay.”

“We should talk to Amal about officially joining the band,” Sam says, instead of _good_ and _I’m so glad you never shut me out_ , and Blaine smiles and tangles their fingers together over the saltshaker, just for a moment.

“We should,” he says, and Sam knows the storm’s passed.

 

****

~

 

The band had been an accident.

Sam was back in Ohio and Blaine was still in New York, and they spoke as often as they could, but between Blaine’s classes and Sam’s new job and their other friends it wasn’t the same as it once had been. It didn’t help that Sam could see what Blaine was refusing to, could see the cracks in his best friend’s relationship getting bigger and bigger as Blaine got more and more distant, but he also knew that pointing it out wouldn’t help anything, not then.

He’d received the call from Rachel when he was hanging out with Unique and Ryder at Breadstix, shouting his apologies to them both as he jumped in his truck and headed straight for the airport, practically wiping out his bank account to get on the first available flight. He hadn’t bothered going by the loft first, headed half-way across town in the other direction, and hoped his best friend senses were still finely tuned enough not to fail him. The relief when he’d found Blaine hunched over Pauline’s barely-tuned piano was so strong he’d had to reach out and hold onto the bar wall for a bit before he could walk over and slide onto the stool next to him; Blaine hadn’t even looked up, just leant back, fingers shaking as he played out a tune Sam hadn’t heard before, and Sam had hugged him close and not said anything until Pauline came in to officially open up, smiling at them both fondly from the door to the back room.

“You should play your boy here that song from last night,” she’d said, turning on the coffeemaker and pulling down three mugs without asking. Sam didn’t know what she was talking about, didn’t know why Blaine had gone suddenly tense, but he’d known it was important.

“Yeah,” he’d said, hooking his chin over Blaine’s shoulder, “you should.”

Blaine had let out a breath, seemingly debating with himself, and then started to sing, and that was how Sam found out that Blaine had been writing, that he had sheets and sheets worth of half-formed melodies and soul baring lyrics sitting in a box at the back of his closet that he hadn’t shared with anyone.

They’d gone back to the loft eventually, Sam dragging Rachel with him to pick up take-out and give the guys some privacy, and when they’d returned Kurt and Blaine were sitting on opposite ends of the couch watching _Project Runway_ and not shouting so it had seemed like everything was okay again, at least for then.

Sam had stuck around, though, thinking he’d just take a few days, a week, calling in his apologies to work and citing a family emergency which in so many ways it had been. He’d spent the rest of his savings on a beat-up secondhand guitar and sat plucking out random tunes on the floor of the loft while everyone else was out, and it wasn’t until Blaine came home early one day and said, “That’s my song,” in a small, awed voice, that Sam had realized he’d been trying to remember the melody Blaine had played him that night.

“Sorry,” he’d said, and Blaine had shook his head and sat crossed-legged in front of him, reaching out to run his fingers gently over the strings.

“Play it again,” he’d said.

It was Pauline who’d found them Charlie, when Sam was still in New York after a month having secretly emailed in his resignation and avoided all but a couple of texts from Jake and Marley and several more from Kitty. “I know a drummer,” she’d said, “mostly session stuff but he misses being in a band.”

Blaine had looked at Sam, eyebrows high, and said, “Do we need a drummer?” It was a loaded question, and Sam hadn’t needed more than a few seconds to think about it.

“I guess we do,” he’d said, and that was that.

 

****

~

 

The show in Chicago’s a disaster. Jack trips over a stray wire and falls into Amal’s kit, and Sam’s so busy trying to stop a hi hat from hitting him that he stops playing, and then it’s just Blaine singing and the crowd gasping, and there’s a moment where everything just _stops_ before Blaine turns around, sees them, and starts laughing. It’s quiet at first but then the whole room’s joining in, and Sam sees Mike in the wings looking at them with pride and amusement and, yeah, it’s a shambles, but it doesn’t matter. Every person that’s bought a ticket is going to have a story to go away with, and Sam doesn’t normally like to use the word _fans_ but that’s exactly what they are and they’ve been loyal from the beginning.

Blaine’s still laughing, folded in half, and Sam can’t help but reach out for him, ignoring the way his guitar’s digging painfully into his midsection. Blaine’s breath is warm as he tucks his chin into Sam’s neck, still shaking, and it’s not like Sam doesn’t know there are several hundred camera phones pointed right at them, it’s just that he doesn’t care. He’s never cared.

“Okay,” Blaine says, grabbing the microphone, “okay, guys. Now Jack’s finished trying to kill the rest of my band--”

“Hey!” Jack protests, flipping Blaine the bird.

“Dude,” Sam says, leaning into his own mic, “I’m just saying, we’re all going to be taping our bunk curtains shut tonight.”

Jack snorts. “ _Please_ , like you and Blaine aren’t going to end up spooning on the couch.”

The crowd goes wild, and Sam’s glad the heat of the stage covers his blush. 

“Alright,” Blaine says, and he’s embarrassed but not mad, “we’re going to be holding open auditions for a new bassist--”

Amal provides a sting, and then they’re back on track, and Sam leads them into their next song, grinning at Mike who’s still laughing from the sidelines.

“You guys are great,” Mike says later. “When’s the next album out?”

Sam shrugs. “Most of it’s written, Blaine’s just playing around with a couple of tracks and then we’ll hit the studio.”

“How are _you_ doing?” Mike asks, and Sam knows he won’t take the typical bullshit answer so he gulps down his water while he thinks about it.

“I’m exhausted,” Sam says, eventually. “I haven’t seen my family in months, I’m averaging four hours sleep a night, and I’m lucky if I get two meals a day and one of them’s Pop-Tarts.”

“And?”

Sam thinks about the songs he still loves playing, thinks about Jack who’s one of his best friends these days, about Amal who easily could be, and about Blaine who’s so much more than that.

“And I’m really happy,” he says, and it’s nothing but the truth.

 

****

~

 

“I made these for you guys,” the girl at the front of the line says, blushing as she slides two bracelets across the table along with her CD to be signed. They’re made of beads and each one has an S and a B separated by a heart. Amal snorts quietly, and Sam elbows him in the ribs as Blaine smiles up at the girl and says, “They’re lovely, thank you.”

“I just figured you should have friendship bracelets,” she says, shrugging like it’s no big deal and not meeting their eyes, and Sam reaches for one and slides it onto his wrist because he has a little sister and also because they’re actually really awesome in a cheesy, middle school kind of way. 

“Super cool,” he says, twisting it around so the S and B are facing upwards for everyone to see.

“If Blaine won’t wear his, I will,” Jack says from the end of the table, looking far too amused as he leans over to grab it; Blaine slips it on his own hand before he can, winking at the girl conspiratorially as she looks about ready to burst. 

“Shut up and get your own best friend,” Sam tells Jack, sticking his tongue out and wondering if feeling like a five year old is because he’s overtired or just in a good mood.

“I like the hearts,” Jack says pointedly.

Sam calls forward the next person in line.

 

****

~

 

They’d already signed the record deal when the Break Up happened.

Sam had been on cloud nine, unable to believe that someone was going to _pay_ him to play guitar and travel around the country and write songs with Blaine, and he’d taken off to see his parents as soon as they’d left the label. Stacey and Stevie had been super excited for him; Stacey asking him when she could download their first single, and if he’d play at her birthday party but only after he was famous. His parents had asked all the typical, responsible questions and Sam had tried to remember everything the lawyer they’d hired had gone over with them, but really his mom and dad had been as happy for him as the kids.

They’d just sat down for dinner his second night when there’d been a knock at the door. Blaine was still in the same clothes he’d been wearing when Sam had last seen him, his hair was a mess, and that plus his wrecked expression was all Sam had needed to know. There wasn’t a single thing he could think of to say besides, “It’ll be alright, it’ll be okay,” over and over as Blaine clung to him and sobbed right there on the porch of his parents’ house; at one point his mom had come to check on them, and Sam must have looked pretty devastated himself because she’d ushered them both inside and told everyone else they were going for pizza.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine had said when he was finally able to draw a breath. “I shouldn’t have just shown up here.”

“Shut up,” Sam had told him. “ _Shut up_.”

They’d moved to the guest room (though his parents still called it ‘Sam’s room’ because they were awesome), Sam sat on the bed, back against the wall, with Blaine’s head in his lap so he could run his fingers through rarely seen curls and wait for Blaine to stop shaking.

“The record deal was the final straw,” Blaine had said eventually, more a whisper than anything, and Sam had held his breath so he didn’t miss it. “I was so excited and talking about how they want us to go on tour as soon as possible, and he’d just looked at me and asked if I thought months apart was really going to help. And, _Sam_ , I hadn’t _thought about it_. I think-- I think he would have been able to accept anything else, except that.”

Sam could picture it clearly, the look on Blaine’s face when Kurt had pointed it out, and known that it must have been the breaking point for Kurt who’d never lived in denial quite the way Blaine had.

“I’m an awful person,” Blaine had said, after a while, and that, at least, Sam could protest.

“You’re not,” he’d said. “We’ve talked about this. You’re _not_. You and Kurt just--”

“Just what?” Blaine had said, looking him in the eye properly for the first time since he’d got there.

“You just haven’t been on the same page in a long time,” Sam had said, and Blaine had winced but hadn’t objected, and that more than anything was proof that this time the break up was for real.

“We both said some things,” Blaine had confessed later, once Sam’s family were back and getting ready for bed, giving them their space. “Unforgivable things.”

“Yeah,” Sam had said, pulling the sheets over them both and not offering reassurances for something he’d known was probably true, and Blaine had squeezed his hand in thanks and fallen asleep with their fingers still tangled together.

Sam had stayed awake for hours after that, staring at the ceiling and running through the past week and chastising himself when all he’d kept thinking, over and over, was ‘ _it’s for the best_ ’.

 

****

~

 

Sam’s been looking forward to a hotel night for what feels like forever, and he doesn’t even care that the paint’s chipping off the walls and he has to walk about a mile to reach the ice machine, not when it has an actual bed and a shower with water pressure. He’s left Blaine to use the bathroom first, wandering in search of chips and soda, and by the time he gets back Blaine’s singing a muffled version of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ in the other room. Sam resists the urge to join in, kicking off his shoes and sprawling back on the sheets with a happy sigh. 

He must have been really quiet, because Blaine comes out ten minutes later with just a small towel wrapped around his waist; for all they share a room and a bus and have, like, _no_ privacy in their day to day lives, it’s still rare to see Blaine anything less than mostly clothed. Blaine blinks at him from behind a curtain of wet hair, and it takes Sam a moment to look away so Blaine can grab his pajamas. 

“Uh,” Sam says, when he finally finds his voice. “I got you Doritos, dude, hope that’s okay.”

“Yes,” Blaine says, ears red. “Thanks. Sorry, I’ll just--”

“Cool,” Sam says, feeling warm all of a sudden. Blaine goes to change and Sam squeezes his eyes shut and listens to the air conditioning unit buzzing until he comes back, fingers curled in the sleeves of his pajama shirt as he crawls onto the other bed.

“Shower’s all yours,” Blaine says, sounding a little weird, and Sam nods and fumbles around in his bag to grab his wash kit and a spare pair of boxers to sleep in.

He takes his time under the spray, feeling like he’s washing away days worth of sweat and grime even though logically he knows the shower on the bus does a totally serviceable job; he makes a note to buy more shampoo and spends a while trying out all the little bottles of stuff on the vanity that Blaine hasn’t touched, drying off when his skin starts to go all prune-y.

Blaine’s watching re-runs of _America’s Next Top Model_ and Sam gives him a thumbs up as he dumps his clothes in his backpack and gets under the sheets, relishing the ability to stretch his legs. On-screen, Laura’s getting scolded by the judges for her latest gran-made outfit, and Sam remembers watching this cycle when it first aired and feeling a kinship with her then, hoping she’d go on to take the prize and then never getting around to seeing the finale.

“Did she win?” he asks Blaine, because it’s the sort of thing Blaine will probably know. “Laura?”

Blaine hums and shakes his head. “No, Nicole won. Laura did All Stars, afterwards, but she didn’t win that, either.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and doesn’t know why that makes him sad. It’s just a show.

“She’s still modeling, though,” Blaine says, like he knows Sam’s mind’s stuck somewhere, and changes the channel to some Disney show Sam doesn’t recognize. Blaine frowns at the TV. “Why don’t I know who any of these kids are anymore?”

Sam shrugs and laughs a little. “Because the bus doesn’t get the Disney Channel? I don’t know. Ask Stacie next time you see her, she’ll be able to fill you in.”

They watch in silence for a while, and Sam doesn’t even try to follow what’s going on, letting the bright colors wash over him, listening to the rustle of sheets every time Blaine moves, and letting it pull him closer to sleep.

 

****

~

 

It starts with an itching at the back of his throat that turns into a full-blown cold somewhere between State lines, and Sam downs as many Tylenol as seems safe and crawls into his bunk with a blanket and a mug of the gross liquorice tea that’s been sitting at the back of the kitchen cupboard since the beginning of tour. 

Jack sticks his head around the curtain at lunchtime and then backs away in alarm, making the sign of the cross and shouting about plague, but he returns ten minutes later with a bowl of runny soup and a worried frown, so Sam just rolls his eyes and feels sorry for himself instead of getting annoyed. He falls asleep after he’s eaten and when he wakes up it’s dark out and he can hear quiet chatter from the front of the bus; he thinks about going and joining in but his head’s pounding and his legs feel like lead, and he can just about find the energy to dry-swallow a couple more pills before he’s passing out again.

The next time he comes to there’s a cold press on his forehead and fingers running gently through his hair, and he sighs into it before prying his eyelids open, unsurprised to find Blaine folded into what little space the bunk has left, flicking through an old issue of _Rolling Stone_. 

“Feels good,” Sam says, his voice coming out a harsh whisper he barely recognizes, and Blaine starts before looking down at him with wide, concerned eyes.

“You’re awake,” he says. “Good. We stopped at a pharmacy and loaded up on stuff, and the girl said to call a doctor if your temperature hasn’t gone down by tomorrow.”

“The show--” Sam says, his brain spinning, and Blaine hushes him and reaches for a glass of water on the floor.

“Sam, there’s no way you’re going to be onstage this week. I’m pretty sure you’ve got the flu. Jack and Amal have already shifted over to other busses so you can get the rest you need.”

“And hopefully not infect you guys,” Sam says, because it makes sense, and then blinks. “Dude, you _definitely_ shouldn’t be here, you’re the irreplaceable one, shit.”

Blaine looks like he’s going to argue and then sighs, nodding. “Yeah, everyone’s made me promise to move out for a couple of days too. I’m sorry, I tried to tell them I’ve had my shots, but--”

It’s totally selfish but Sam wants to ask him to stay, knows that if he did Blaine would curl up next to him and bring him juice and read him funny _texts from last night_ and up his own chances of getting sick just to make Sam feel a little bit better, but practically dying hasn’t turned him into a total dick so he shakes his head as much as he can without his brain exploding.

“You should go,” he says, and kind of wants to cry. “Let me know if there’s a zombie apocalypse or One Direction implode.”

Blaine nods, taking the request seriously because he gets Sam like no one else, and then hands over a Walgreens bag full of bottled water and medication and hesitates just long enough that Sam starts to think _screw it, being a good person’s overrated_ , before standing up.

“Get better soon, okay?” he says, and Sam watches his fingers curl into themselves in that way that means he’s resisting the urge to reach out and touch. 

“Promise,” he says, and waits until Blaine’s gone before pulling his knees up to his chest and - for the first time - wishing they weren’t on this tour and weren’t kind of famous and weren’t anywhere but back in high school where it wouldn’t matter if they both ended up sick and being force fed Carole’s homemade chicken broth as the glee club sent them increasingly panicked texts about whatever stupid plan Sue had cooked up that week.

He doesn’t mean it, but for a moment he misses it anyway.

 

****

~

 

It’s another two days before his fever breaks, and then three more before he can stay awake for any length of time; Jack and Amal move back onto the bus around day five, offering surprisingly gentle back pats and a run-down of everything that’s gone on in his absence.

“Seriously,” Amal says, “the crowds were pretty devastated you weren’t there. There’s a bag of Get Well cards from the meet and greets somewhere, but Johnno wants to go through them and make sure no one’s tried putting human hair or whatever in the envelopes.”

“I had to explain to Amal that it wouldn’t be the first time,” Jack says with a shudder, and Sam mentally recites the lyrics to _Party in the USA_ to avoid thinking about the trauma of that experience. 

Blaine’s still AWOL because no one wants to take any risks with their lead vocalist, and Sam gets it but this is the longest they’ve been apart since Blaine’s parents took him and Cooper to visit family in the Philippines when they got back from their last tour, and he _misses_ him. He’s obviously not subtle about it either because after his third attempt at trying to wheedle Blaine’s activities out of them, Amal laughs and says, “He’s _fine_ , he’s just hanging out with some of the new guys.”

Jack looks uncomfortable. “He’ll be back as soon as Johnno lets him,” he says, and it sounds weirdly like a promise. “You know Blaine, he’s a people person.”

“Right,” Sam says, drawing the word out and sharing a confused glance with Amal who shrugs and reaches for a handful of grapes Sam had given up eating three days into his confinement. 

“Up for a game of _Crash Bandicoot?_ ” Amal asks, already setting up the console, and Sam grins, relieved for the company and the distraction, and determinedly _not_ thinking about what it is he’s missed that Jack thinks important enough to not-so-subtly warn him about.

 

****

~

 

The minute Johnno gives the all-clear, Sam practically trips out of the bus in relief, taking melodramatic gasps of air and flipping a group of roadies off when they laugh at him from across the parking lot. He has even less of an idea than usual about where they are, but right now he doesn’t care, is too happy just to be able to _move_. 

He runs a lap and a half around the tarmac before his lungs start to burn and his legs feel shaky, and he makes himself slow down before he undoes all the good work a week’s bed rest has accomplished. There are still a couple of hours until sound check but the thought of going back to the bus makes Sam feel gross so he heads in the direction of the venue, kicking at stray pebbles with the tips of his sneakers and enjoying the way goose bumps rise on the bare skin of his arms when the wind picks up. He’s always been better outdoors, grew up camping and hiking and hunting, and even in Ohio he’d run every day as much for the fresh air as the exercise; New York had been a culture shock, tour life even more so, and Sam loves it, he _does_ , but it doesn’t mean he’s not looking forward to L.A. and spending days on the beach or in the park, feeling the sand and the grass and the sidewalk under his feet.

He rounds a random corner, thinking about how he can talk Blaine into going on a fishing trip after tour, and that’s probably why it takes him a moment to register that Blaine’s _there_ , in front of him, for the first time in days. The smile’s already forming when Blaine looks up from the conversation he’s having, and Sam’s ready to pounce, to receive all the totally overdue hugs that he’s absolutely planning to collect on, except Blaine’s eyes widen a bit and his own smile is almost _cautious_ , and Sam’s pulled up short.

“Hi,” Blaine says, and doesn’t move to close the distance between them.

“Hey,” Sam says, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to _do_ with himself. He feels uncomfortable in his skin in a way he’s not used to - not anymore - and he doesn’t know _why_ but it’s probably something about the way Blaine’s glance flits between him and the guy he was just talking to, back straight and hands curled into gentle fists as though to stop himself from reaching out.

“You got the all clear then?” Blaine says, still sounding strange, and Sam feels a bit sick in a way that has nothing to do with the flu.

“Yep,” Sam says, forcing his smile back into place, “I didn’t have to stage that prison break after all. To be honest, I think Johnno was mostly just getting fed up of the whining.” 

Blaine smiles for real at that, and Sam’s own shoulders drop a few notches. 

“Oh,” Blaine says, “Sam, this is Tom, he’s part of the merch team for this leg of the tour.”

They’ve met a lot of people since starting the band - crew and musicians and fans - and Blaine’s as good as he is about getting to know as many of them as possible, likes being able to place names with hometowns and families and coffee orders, so it’s not the introduction that’s weird. What’s weird is that Sam knows Blaine like the back of his hand, and even if he didn’t, the weight of the whole thing sits heavy in the air. 

Tom’s looking in his direction, though not _at him_ so much as a spot by his left ear, and he doesn’t seem to be affected by the mood; Sam offers his hand and hopes the shake comes across as casual and friendly, reaching for Blaine’s approval in a way he hasn’t needed to in a long time.

“We were just going for lunch,” Blaine says after a moment, and Sam nods, smile still stuck in place, and wonders if he can make small talk for longer than five minutes or if whatever’s going through Blaine’s head will end up spilled between them, clearing the air. He doesn’t expect the answer to be neither, though, and Blaine’s, “See you later,” leaves him feeling dizzy and speechless, watching Blaine turn and walk away, Tom by his side.

Sam wonders for a minute if he’s still back on the bus suffering from fevered delusions or nightmares or something, and takes a few deep breaths until he’s stopped building it up into the end of the world. He just feels wrong footed, that’s all, like when you miss a step on the stairs; it’s easy to forget that Blaine’s world doesn’t revolve around him, and honestly he’s never _wanted_ it to, not when he’s seen firsthand how unhealthy that is for Blaine and everyone else. He’s been out of action for the last week and Blaine already made plans and they’ll see each other in a few hours to prep for the show, that’s all. 

He squashes the part of his mind that suggests he’s done something to piss Blaine off because unless there were shapeshifters or doppelgangers or witches involved, he hasn’t been with it enough to listen to more than two songs in a row on his iPod let alone do anything drastic enough to annoy his super patient best friend. Also his life isn’t an episode of _Buffy_.

There’s a shout down the hall and a few seconds later Amal appears, swinging an arm around Sam’s shoulders, and it’s pathetic but Sam’s grateful for the physical contact right now.

“You’re free!” he says, and Sam laughs a little desperately. 

“Yeah.”

“Great,” Amal says, and at least _he_ sounds like he means it. “There’s a soccer golf place - which is apparently a real thing, God bless the universe - and Jack’s talked the _Get Me Gone_ guys into a round. You can come laugh at them with me.”

“Sounds awesome,” Sam says, letting Amal pull him back outside and hoping that an afternoon being an idiot with his friends will be enough to shake off the weird feeling in his chest.

 

****

~

 

“I don’t like him,” Jack says, dropping down next to Sam at the edge of the stage and nodding to where Blaine and Tom are huddled at the back of the room, head’s bent close. Sam laughs and rolls his eyes and pretends it doesn’t give him the tiniest amount of petty vindication. “Seriously though, what’s going on?”

“I have no idea,” he says honestly. Then: “Kurt’s moved in with What’s-His-Face.”

Jack frowns. “So this is, what? Part of some belated break down?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, shrugging. “Maybe. Or maybe Blaine just likes the new guy.”

Jack scoffs. “ _Okay_. I may have only met Kurt a couple of times, but even I know this cardboard poser isn’t Blaine’s type.”

Sam grins. “Nah, but Kurt was never really Blaine’s type, either.”

“There’s a story there,” Jack says, and Sam laughs and stays quiet. “Seriously though, whatever the reason, none of it explains the part where he’s avoiding _you_.”

“You noticed that, huh?” Sam says, and Jack knocks his knuckles against Sam’s knee and sounds like he’s trying not to be pitying when he says, “Everyone has, man.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, because Blaine’s always been about as subtle as a ton of bricks. They’ve barely exchanged a handful of words since Sam’s quarantine, and he has no idea what’s changed, just that Blaine’s going out of his way not to be alone with him, using Tom as a human shield whenever possible. 

Sam’s always considered himself a pretty laid-back guy, but it’s seriously starting to grate on all of his insecurities as well as his last nerve. 

“I’m sure he’ll get over whatever it is soon,” Jack says, and Sam stares at him until he says, “Okay, so maybe not, but it’s _you and Blaine_ , you guys not talking is like a sign of the apocalypse.”

Sam throws him a smile and doesn’t say that that’s exactly how it feels.

 

****

~

 

The first time Sam slept with a guy it was a stranger. 

For once they weren’t on tour or in the studio, and he and Blaine had spent the day playing miniature golf and soaking up the L.A. sun, still not used to calling it home, giving in only when a five-year-old’s birthday party swarmed the joint. They’d grabbed dinner at the Lebanese place on their self-penned list of restaurants to try, and Sam had insisted on circling it with stars as they waited for their check, full and content and about ready to head home and fall asleep in front of late-night talk shows.

Except then there was a bar and talk of nightcaps and a tall, skinny guy with brown hair and a big smile, and he didn’t know if Blaine was seeing Kurt or Sebastian or someone else, but Sam refused to ask when he got that nostalgic gleam in his eye. 

Blaine had looked back at Sam with an embarrassed shrug, focused on his barely touched beer, and Sam had thought that _maybe_ \--

But then the guy had sent over a drink, like they always did, and Blaine had huffed out a self-admonishing laugh and looked at Sam for permission, like he needed it, and Sam had waved him away with a grin and a wink because that’s what you did when your best friend had the chance to get laid.

Sam had stayed, though, ordering another beer and watching as a couple of guys set up a PA desk in the corner for an open-mic night that might have seemed fun at any other time, and pretended not to notice when Blaine left. He must have looked miserable because the bar tender had brought over a plate of nachos free of charge and stuck around to chat, and then they were getting their jackets and walking the four blocks to a strange apartment, and Sam still hadn’t been sure he’d go through with it right up until the door shut behind them.

They didn’t talk much, just stumbled into the bedroom and onto unmade sheets, and Sam had never been one to worry much about sex but he’d had a moment of panic before the guy kissed him, laughing, and it had been easier then. He hadn’t known what he was doing, but that was okay; the guy - and _God_ , Sam had never even learnt his _name_ \- had taken things slow, showing Sam how to use his fingers and his tongue and his words.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d always assumed that it would be the same - not the technicalities, obviously, but all the general stuff on his end. Apparently he’d always been an idiot, or maybe it was just that sex education in Lima, Ohio had been about as useful as one of Mr. Schue’s post-competition condolence speeches.

They’d eaten dry cereal from the box between rounds, listening to the the crowds emptying out of a club down the street and the tinny track of some band the guy knew playing from his phone, turned low so he didn’t have to face the wrath of his neighbors like his headboard hadn’t been beating out a rhythm of its own on the wall just minutes before. When he’d gone to the bathroom, Sam had checked to make sure his own band wasn’t somewhere hidden in amongst unsigned electronica acts and indie singer-songwriters, and had never been so glad to end up just another anonymous one night stand.

At one point, somewhere after the world around them had gone quiet and Sam’s phone had remained silent in his jeans pocket, the guy had reached for the condoms spilling over his nightstand, holding his hand out, and Sam had shook his head and sprawled back against the pillows. The guy’s eyebrows had raised in surprise and approval, and Sam had bit back any nervousness in favor of anticipation, enjoying the haze of sweat and sex and aching muscles and ridding himself of another first because _why the hell not?_

In the morning he’d snuck out, confidant that the guy would expect nothing less, wincing when he dropped his sneakers on the stairs and getting lost trying to retrace his steps to the bar and from there to his own apartment. He’d arrived home about twenty minutes before Blaine, heard the door click quietly shut from where he’d just stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a shirt to hide the bruises on his hips even though Blaine never came into his room the morning after an all-nighter.

He’d taken a few deep breaths and gone to put the coffee on, and when Blaine had joined him and avoided talking about his own exploits Sam had gladly done the same, relieved that his best friend didn’t seem to have some sixth sense about dude on dude sex.

He’d never told Blaine about that night, but he’d never freaked out either.

In hindsight, there was probably a reason for both those things.

 

****

~

 

The New Directions - _their_ New Directions - come out en masse to their Ohio show, complete with giant, obnoxious hand-painted signs and t-shirts bearing Sam and Blaine’s faces, and the way Blaine lights up lets Sam forget the building tension between them for a little while. 

Later, they drag Jack and Amal out with them, and Sam’s not surprised that the laughter comes easily. Jake and Kitty push too many tables together, and Ryder and Amal sit and discuss cymbals for twenty minutes before Unique gets bored and demands everyone starts dancing, pulling Marley out of her seat so she almost topples in the heels someone else has obviously talked her into, Sugar giggling and disappearing only to return with a whole tray of shots and a glint in her eye that suggests she didn’t have to pay for a single one.

The familiarity of it all’s enough to ease the constant weight in Sam’s chest, and he spins the girls around the room and FaceTime’s Brittany and then Tina, feeling brave enough to press his cheek against Blaine’s shoulder when Blaine takes the phone to offer drunken apologies as Tina moans about not being with them, laughing into the curve of his neck when she says, “Don’t think I don’t see you Sam Evans. Why are you wearing a shirt?”

He’s almost mad when Ryder and Jake ask him to help carry the next round.

Eventually the others have to leave, piling into Kitty’s car and offering them over-zealous cheek kisses and hugs that threaten to crush ribs and make Sam happier than he’s been in weeks. He’s still riding the high when they get back to the busses, but then Blaine’s checking his phone and saying, “Tom’s still awake, I’m just going to—”, wandering away without glancing up, and maybe that’s a good thing because at least it’s only Jack and Amal that get to see the expression on his face.

He’s pretty sure it looks like heartbreak.

When he’s in his bunk he sends the others ‘ _thank you, love you_ ’ texts, receiving a stream of them in response, and when he closes his eyes he tries to focus on the pounding in his head instead of the way he sort of wants to cry.

 

****

~

 

They play two nights in New York, and it’s off the charts, the crowd claiming them as their own even if they’re far from homegrown, the patrons of Pauline’s bar front and center and cursing them out as they laugh and shout and dance until all Sam can see is the sheen of sweat in the spotlights. The energy buzzes through him and he plays hard, his voice torn by the encore, and it’s best show he can remember.

Outside the backdoor people are crammed together waiting, and Sam makes Johnno give them an extra ten minutes just to be able to smile and sign and take photos because this is the second most important reason he’s even here in the first place. Jack and Amal start reading the best signs aloud, everyone cheering as they reach the dirtier ones, and Sam’s lost sight of Blaine but the shrieks deafening his left ear suggest he’s taking his time and trying to slip in as many almost-conversations as possible.

He signs an autograph book for a girl who can hardly get the words out to ask and leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek just because, smiling back at her friends when they all burst into surprised giggles, and then he’s moving along the line and there’s a boy, seventeen at the most, wearing a shirt with **Anderson + Evans = Friendship Goals** printed in bold black font and Sam stops and stares for a beat.

“Hi,” he says, when his throat works again. “Cool shirt.”

“Thanks,” the boy says, and his cheeks are flushed red but he’s smiling. “I wanted to say, you and Blaine, your friendship helped me through a _lot_ , so. Thanks.”

His voice is tight, like he’s trying not to sound too emotional, but Sam can see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes and the way he holds his shoulders back with a deliberate attempt at control. Before he knows what he’s doing he’s tugging him into a hug across the metal barrier and gripping tight as the boy collapses into it, forehead pressed awkwardly into Sam’s collarbone and breath shaky to his ears.

Sam thinks about slushies and duets and lockers and wonders if high school will ever change.

“ _Thank you_ ,” the boy says again when he pulls away, rubbing furiously as his eyes, and Sam shakes his head and presses his fist gently against the print of his own name.

“You have someone?” he asks, and the boy smiles.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I do now. We…We bonded over music. He made the shirt.”

Sam’s heart feels like it doesn’t know whether to break or burst and he wants to find Blaine’s hand somewhere amongst all these people and never let go.

“That’s great,” he says instead, and means it more than he can say.

 

****

~

 

They’ve only ever kissed once, the night they found out their debut album had hit the charts. Weirdly, it had been Kurt who let them know, a simple “congratulations” sent to Sam’s phone and not Blaine’s, and Sam had angled it away and brought up Google instead of replying.

Jack had dragged everyone out to a bar, buying the first round of shots before Blaine had a chance to back out, and Sam had pulled him onto the dance floor and kept him moving until he was talking and laughing and accepting every drink Jack pushed into his hands, finally giving in to the celebration that was really all for him anyway.

Sam hadn’t been much better, though by that point he’d learnt how to handle his alcohol, or at least learnt what pace wouldn’t leave him for dead come morning, and they didn’t stop dancing until Charlie had herded them up and reminded them the buses were leaving in twenty minutes.

Blaine had clung to him the whole way back, fingers tangled in Sam’s hoodie and so close they’d stumbled more than walked, and Sam had been dizzy with it - the vodka and the night air and _Blaine_  - and maybe that was why he’d turned and caught Blaine’s lips, Blaine still halfway through laughing at a story neither of them would remember the next day.

Blaine had made a small noise and hesitated before kissing Sam back, just for a moment, and when they’d pulled apart he’d rested his forehead against Sam’s and said, “We did it, Sammy. This is  _ours_ , you and me,” and Sam had laughed and pulled him in for a hug and let it fade away as the congratulations it was taken for and the congratulations it was, maybe, supposed to be, and had accepted Blaine’s embarrassed smile over breakfast instead of ever talking about it.

It had just been a kiss, after all, nothing new or groundbreaking or worth worrying about.

(To be fair, Sam hadn’t even believed that  _then_.)

 

****

~

 

Blaine sleeps on one of the other busses and comes back the next morning smelling of stale beer and weed and collapsing on the couch before Sam can so much as raise an eyebrow. There are shadows high on his cheeks and his shirt doesn’t look as tight as usual, and Sam wants to shake him and hug him and ask him what the _hell_ is going on.

It suddenly hits him that all the anger and loneliness and misery he’s been carrying around the last few weeks are because he feels _betrayed_ , and that’s—

_Fuck._

Enough’s enough.

“We need to talk,” he says, and hates how shaky it sounds. “ _Now_ , dude.”

Blaine rolls over and buries his face in the back of the couch with a sigh before sitting up and looking at a spot behind Sam’s ear. “What’s up?” he says eventually.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “You’re avoiding me,” he says when he’s calm enough. “You’re always somewhere else and even when you’re around you’re not and, just…Did I _do_ something?”

Blaine bites at his lip and drops his gaze, and Sam recognizes the guilt in it.

“No,” Blaine says. “No, Sam, of course you didn’t.”

“Then _what?_ ”

“It’s nothing,” Blaine says, “just leave it.”

Sam grits his teeth and tries to bite back the increasing irritation. “No.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sam,” Blaine says, and he’s finally looking at him properly. “Not everything’s about you.”

“I _know_ that,” Sam says, volume rising. “But this _is_.”

He knows it, knows it in the way Blaine’s jaw is clenched and his fingers are curled into fists and his eyes are burning, and it’s not their first fight, but it feels the heaviest. They’re on tenterhooks getting ready to break, and Sam holds his breath and waits it out.

“ _Sam_ ,” Blaine says, and it’s a plea, asking him to drop it and walk away, but Sam’s never done it before and he's not going to start now. _Especially_ not now.

“Blaine.”

Blaine’s shaking when he reaches out, fingers curling around Sam’s neck with barely there pressure, and Sam waits and waits and waits and closes the distance between them when impatience and frustration and _need_ win out.

Blaine hums a desperate sound against his lips and melts into him, and Sam thinks _‘this isn’t going to solve anything’_ and tumbles them past the point of no return anyway.

 

****

~

 

Sam’s always thought he’s the kind of guy who falls in love easily; the blow to the head that leaves you dizzy. In high school it always felt that way, with Quinn and Mercedes and Brittany, at least; Santana mostly just scared him back then, which was a good judgment call considering these days she terrifies him.

He’s older now though, and not as stupid as people tend to think. Tina’s given him enough lectures on the chemical makeup of the brain, and how all those teenage hormones were just building up in a whirlpool of lust and endorphins and the general high school hierarchy of relationships, which is why they barely made it out of the early stages to begin with. Not love, just chemistry and biology and other subjects he barely passed.

Of course, Tina once massaged Vaporub into an unconscious gay boy, so--

The point is, he knows all this. He knows he wasn’t ever in love with Quinn, knows that Mercedes came a lot closer to the mark, and that Britt probably reached it before that fizzled out, too. He knows that love’s different for everyone and that there’s a ton of different types and that how you feel about someone at seventeen isn’t how you’re going to feel about them at twenty-three.

The time _between_ seventeen and twenty-three is where he trips himself up.

Because somewhere in there, slowly and without realizing, he fell in love - real, messy, chemicals galore _love_ \- with his best friend.

And high school really didn’t prepare him for that.

 

****

~

 

“So,” Sam says, sitting down on the grassy verge next to Blaine and crossing his legs, “this is where you’re hiding.”

He’d woken up alone and unsurprised in an empty bus and forced himself to take a shower and eat two cold Pop-Tarts to give Blaine time to freak out in private before he ambushed him with the talk they should have had the night before.

“Sam, about what happened—” Blaine says, back straight and composure in place, and Sam shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says. “Sorry. No forgetting it ever happened, no putting it down to, like, bad decisions or magic pollen or whatever. We had sex. You and me.”

Blaine takes a deep breath through his nose and tightens his fingers around his knees. “It was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” Sam says.

Blaine lets out a frustrated sigh. “ _Sam._ ”

“ _Blaine_ ,” Sam says, angling his head so he can catch Blaine’s eye.

“I’m trying to give you an out,” Blaine says, snapping, his hands waving around enough that Sam has to lean back to avoid being smacked in the nose. 

“Why the hell would I want that?” Sam says, and wonders if he’s been living out a different set of events to Blaine lately. He’s not dumb enough to think he’s been remotely subtle about his feelings in a long time, and Blaine’s always been good at reading other people.

“Because this is an awful idea,” Blaine says, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’ll ruin everything, and I can’t do that again, I can’t keep repeating the same mistakes over and over.”

“Okay,” Sam says, keeping his words steady and precise and hoping his mouth doesn’t betray him, “we’re not you and Kurt.”

Blaine chokes out a laugh. “I know,” he says. “I know we’re not, because God, Sammy, losing you would be so much worse. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

“So you ran,” Sam says, and it’s not new information but it breaks his heart anyway. “You found someone else because you didn’t want _this_ to happen.”

“No,” Blaine says, turning to face him and grabbing at the sleeve of Sam’s sweater. “I wanted it more than _anything_ , Sam. I’ve _always_ —” His voice breaks and Sam waits him out, curling the fingers of his free hand as close to Blaine’s as he dares. “At first I thought I was imagining things, seeing what I wanted to, and then you just kept _looking_ at me and you weren’t supposed to _do that_. You weren’t supposed to—”

“To what?” Sam says, though he knows the answer.

“You weren’t supposed to fall in love with me.”

“But I did,” Sam says, refusing to look away, “and you’re in love with me. So where does that leave us?” Blaine doesn’t deny it, and some of the anxiety fades. “I get that you’re scared, I am too, but _Blaine_ , this is you and me. Nothing in the world is as easy as that.”

“It could screw up everything,” Blaine says, but it’s not an argument anymore and Sam can feel the possibilities stretching between them.

“Yeah,” he says, “but it won’t.”

They watch the cars pass by on the highway ahead and Sam lets his fingers tangle with Blaine’s, wondering at how familiar and how different it feels.

“Okay,” Blaine says, and Sam breathes.

“I love you,” he says, and when Blaine smiles everything falls into place.

“I love you, too."

For now, that’s all that matters.

 

****

~

 

Fingers curl around his hip, and Sam focuses on playing even as his mind drifts to conversations, spoken and not, whispered in single bunks and stolen backstage moments, insecurities and built-up tension and keepable promises laid out bare as they plan out the future, step by step.

Blaine hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder, and Sam feels the microphone pressed against his cheek and Blaine’s voice in his ear and Jack’s laugh in his harmonies. He needs sleep and a shower and a proper meal, and he doesn’t know what city they’re in tonight let alone where they’ll be tomorrow. His fingers ache and his throat feels raw and there are a hundred cameras pointed at him right this moment, and it’s still the coolest feeling in the world.

He turns and cuts Blaine off, kissing the lyrics away.

The crowd goes wild.  



End file.
